The Argentine's Price

CHAPTER SEVEN


“WHAT’S this?”

Lazaro flicked her an uninterested look from his position at the sleek penthouse bar. “I had some things sent ahead for you.”

A lot of things. Dresses, a swimsuit … the large armoire had been stocked with items, as had the freestanding vanity in the massive bathroom that was just off her expansive bedroom. But that wasn’t what caught her eye. “This,” she said again, picking up a black camera bag that was positioned in the middle of the sumptuous four-poster bed, almost afraid to open it.

She peered through the open door of her bedroom and out into the spacious living area.

Lazaro waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “You mentioned you liked taking pictures.”

Her heart thundered hard in her head, and she felt dizzy. Overwhelmed. She ran her fingers along the edge of the bag. It was very high-quality heavy canvas sewn with thick nylon thread.

She grasped the zipper and pulled it open. Her hands shook as she pulled the camera out. It wasn’t just a camera. It was lenses and filters and just about every other accessory she could think of. Much more than she would ever need to take pictures as a hobby.

She walked out of her room and into the living room, stepping up the marble steps into the bar area.

She felt short of breath as she turned the camera over in her hands, her fingers sliding over the slick black casing. Her body felt strange, hollow.

“Lazaro, why … why did you do this for me?”

He moved around to the other side of the bar, drink in hand. “Why not? You said you liked to take pictures. You were doing it with your phone and I thought you might want a real camera. Especially as I knew you would want pictures of Buenos Aires.”

“I do … I was … I was so wishing I could capture it all forever while we were driving from the airport and … you knew.”

He shrugged. “It isn’t a big deal. Money is nothing to me.”

“This is more than money.”

“It’s not,” he said, his focus on the city skyline beyond the large window that extended the length of the living area.

“But I just don’t understand why you went to the trouble to …”

“You’re going to be my wife, Vanessa,” he said, cutting her off. “I don’t want you to be miserable. Do you think I mean to keep you as my captive and make you pay penance for the rest of your life? I have no interest in that.”

“I hadn’t really given it a lot of thought.”

That he intended to make her happy was an entirely foreign concept. It wasn’t that she’d imagined he wanted her to be miserable, it was just that she didn’t think he’d cared one way or the other.

“Really?” he asked, his tone dry.

“I’ve just been trying to get through the day-to-day stuff. Not only since you decided to play a little game of Russian roulette with my life, before that too. I’ve just been trying to get by.”

“I have a lot of experience in just trying to get by,” he said slowly.

“It’s not fun.”

“No, it’s not.” He looked at her, his dark eyes veiling his emotions, but she felt that his eyes were able to see into her, to read her thoughts. “It begs the question, why do you choose to do it?”

“I don’t. Not really.”

“You do.”

“Fine, maybe. I choose to do it because as I said before, it isn’t just me. It’s my family. It’s the inheritance for all my—our children.”

“You could take an inactive role.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, it would save you all that money you spend on antacids,” he said, his voice flat.

“It doesn’t come naturally to me, I’ll admit that. I took all the classes, I got really good grades, in fact, but a classroom isn’t the real world. I don’t have that extra thing that takes someone from good to great.”

He took a long sip of his drink and walked back to the bar, putting both of his hands flat on the marble surface. “You might not have it for business, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have it.”

That was a revelation—but one she couldn’t accept. One she’d been trained not to accept. “It doesn’t really matter if I can’t do the one thing that would matter.”

“Is it all that matters?”

“You can ask me that? Does your success matter, Lazaro? And is it enough? Or are you still after more?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Exactly. You aren’t happy because there’s still that one thing. This is my thing, this is what I have to do. What I have to get right.”

He nodded once. “Good for you. I wouldn’t have thought you’d have this kind of determination.”

That stung a little bit. “Because you knew me for a few weeks when I was sixteen?”

“It made an impression,” he said dryly.

“Yay, me,” she said, turning the camera over in her hands, suddenly fighting back a hot flood of tears. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for this. Really.”

“You can bring it when we go out tonight.”

“We’re going out?”

“I thought you might want to see some of the city.”

She nodded. “I do. I very much do.”

“Great. I have to stop by Paolo Cruz’s office and give him a rundown of what we’re discussing at the board meeting tomorrow, but when I get back, we’ll go and have dinner.”

Dinner with Lazaro in Buenos Aires and a gift. A personal gift. Proof that he’d listened to her. That he wanted her to be happy.

The emotion thing kept getting trickier. Lucky her.

Vanessa on a normal day was enough to light his blood on fire and make his libido kick into high gear. Vanessa dressed to kill in a tight black dress with a low V-neckline and a slit in the skirt that revealed one toned, gorgeous thigh when she walked was almost too much.

Already, the past few days in Buenos Aires had tested him, his body now so hot that an ice-cold shower at night did nothing to cool the fire that raged beneath his skin. A fire only Vanessa could dampen.

But he had not gone to her. He would not let her see that she had that power over him. It was a power she had always had. He’d been bewitched by her body, her spirit, from the moment he’d met her. It galled him that she still had him under her spell.

After three days, no, more like twelve years of resisting, right now he ached to pull her into his arms, the need so strong he thought he couldn’t resist it without the pain becoming crippling. His body throbbed with the need to have her. To feel those slim, perfect legs wrapped around his waist as he drowned himself in the pleasure only she could offer.

Tonight, she’d left her hair down, rich brown waves cascading over her shoulders, partially concealing the round swell of her breasts that the daring neckline of her dress did not.

She brought something out in him, something he didn’t recognize. A need, a desire, a totally primal lust that defied anything he’d ever experienced before.

They’d shared a kiss. A simple kiss. Yet she’d burrowed her way inside him as no woman, not a long-term girlfriend or one-night lover, ever had. He wished this need was tied to vengeance. That he could explain. But it was separate from the issues with her father. Even if all of the events of the past sometimes tangled in his memory, the parts with Vanessa, the memories of her lips touching his, burned bright in his mind, washed everything else away. When he thought of her mouth, of her hands on his body, there was nothing else.

It was desire. That was all. Even if it was desire such as he’d never known. And he would have a lifetime to indulge that desire. To take the edge off it so that it no longer dominated his thoughts.

Her wicked red lips curved into a smile and all of his blood rushed south of his belt. “I didn’t overdress, did I?”

She was absolutely overdressed. Anything covering those luscious curves was a crime as far as he was concerned. “Not at all,” he said “Are you ready then?”

“Si.” Images of them together, limbs entwined, moans of pleasure issuing from those plump red lips had him hard and shaking. He didn’t want dinner. He wanted her, wanted her body pressed against his. He felt a smile curve his lips. “I think that, in honor of your dress, we need to go somewhere different than I originally had in mind.”

Even at night the streets of Buenos Aires were alive. People were still walking around, laughing, talking, eating. Heat and moisture clung to the air, to Vanessa’s skin, as they walked down the crowded sidewalk.

Lazaro was completely at ease in his surroundings. Passersby stopped and looked at him, and Vanessa couldn’t blame them. In his black suit and open-collared shirt, he was absolute masculine perfection. He demanded to be stared at.

He didn’t seem to notice, or care, that he drew attention from every woman they passed. He didn’t return any of the hungry, open stares. His eyes were on her. And it was making her blood feel hot.

“Where are we going?” she asked. It was a long shot, but talking might break up some of the tension that was building inside her.

“Right here.” He took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and led her into a small, narrow doorway. The outside of the building had seemed the same as every building they’d passed—white brick with rounded edges showing its age. But the interior didn’t match the old-world feel of the streets outside.

Inside was open and clean, with pared-down, square furniture and a large bar area surrounded by plush seating. Pendant lighting hung low at different lengths, made to look like floating candles suspended in space.

There was plenty of room to move, but everything was arranged so that it felt close, intimate. There was a band playing, and couples were on the dance floors, wrapped around each other, dancing in a rhythm so sensual that it made Vanessa feel as though she was intruding on something by witnessing it.

“Would you like a drink?” Lazaro gestured to the bar.

“I … No.” Her body already felt giddy, her thoughts light and fuzzy. She didn’t want to add anything to her system that might encourage the feelings.

“Dance with me,” he said, touching her hand, the sensation of his skin against hers lighting a fire that burned from her fingertips to her chest, settling around her heart. “And don’t tell me you can’t dance, because I’m sure a woman of your … status will have had dance lessons from the time she learned to walk.”

“I don’t dance like this,” she said, flicking a glance back at the dance floor.

“This is how I dance,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her to him. “And since I’m your future husband, you should learn to dance with me, don’t you think?”

“We’re going to tango at our wedding?” she asked, a short laugh escaping her lips as she imagined the seductive dance with the super-traditional Pickett estate serving as a backdrop.

“It would give people something to talk about.”

“We already are something to talk about, Lazaro.”

“I suppose we are,” he said, dark eyes glittering in the dim light of the club. He looked different here. More dangerous. The polish of sophistication he’d cultivated seemed to have worn thin in the past few hours. This was the man she’d known twelve years ago.

Rough around the edges. Utterly deadly to her senses.

“Dance with me,” he said again. Not a question, a demand. One she couldn’t refuse.

She allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, her heart thundering so loudly she was certain people around her would be able to hear it, even over the steady beat of the music. But here, no one looked at them, not even at Lazaro. Every couple was totally enthralled with each other, with the movements of their partner.

Lazaro wrapped one arm around her waist and brought her up against his chest, his other hand clasping hers. “Follow my lead.”

She knew she didn’t look like the elegant women dancing around her, but with Lazaro leading, his movements strong and sure, she felt like one of them. She could feel his heart beating hard against her chest, strong and steady, and her steps began to match his, her body moving in rhythm with the beat of his heart.

The music closed in around them, making her feel as if they were alone, everyone else fading into murky, shadowy impressions. Nothing else mattered but Lazaro, the weight of his hand on her waist, the intensity in his eyes as he looked at her.

The strains of the violin wound through Vanessa’s body, filled her, joined the arousal that had been building inside her since the moment she’d walked back into Lazaro’s life, making her feel too full. But also more alive than she’d ever felt before.

Lazaro slid his hand down to the curve of her hip, down lower, edging beneath the daring split in the skirt of her dress. His hand connected with the very top of her stocking, the place where nylon ended and bare flesh began. He curled his fingers in and lifted her leg, curving it around his. It was part of the dance, nothing more sensual than anyone else was doing. And yet it made her feel dizzy with desire, held captive to it, waiting to see what he would do next. Where he would touch her next.

He pulled her closer to him and the hard length of his erection pressed against her stomach. She dug her fingers into his shoulder, bit down on her lip, trying to keep back the sound of pleasure that was trying to escape.

This was real. Sexual. Raw. It stirred primal hunger in her, a sense of feminine power.

He moved his hand from her thigh, back to her hip, his grip tightening. He pulled into his body and she melted against him. It was all part of the dance.

And yet it wasn’t.

He pressed his face against hers, the stubble that had grown in since that morning abrading her cheek, the slight prickle of pain combining with her mounting arousal, making her feel as if she was drowning in sensation.

“Come with me,” he whispered, his voice rough.

He was leading. She was following. This felt like part of the dance too.

And yet it wasn’t.

He brought her into a small alcove just off the dance floor, partly secluded with swaths of fabric that cascaded from the ceiling to the floor.

“Lazaro …” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Not when he was looking at her as though she was the only thing he could see.

He leaned in slightly and braced himself on the wall behind her, his hand resting by her head, his other arm wrapped around her waist. She was effectively trapped, and she didn’t mind at all.

She tilted her head slightly, hoping that he would take the hint and kiss her. Logic and self-preservation had no place in what was happening between them now. This was about feeling, desire, the kind of passion she’d tasted once twelve years ago and had been starving for every night since then.

He kissed her and she forgot everything—everything but the graze of rough stubble on her cheeks, the velvet slide of his tongue, the firm warmth of his lips. There was nothing else.

She kissed him back with everything she had, all of the pent-up desire that had lain dormant in her for so long. Desire for him.

He cupped her cheek for a moment before sliding his hand through her hair, weaving his fingers into the thick curls. He held her like that, anchored to him, his kiss giving and demanding at the same time. Too much and not enough.

She arched against him, needing to be closer to him, as close to him as she could possibly get. She needed his touch. His hands. Needed him.

He tilted his head and kissed the tender skin beneath her jaw, the curve of her neck, her shoulder. She shivered and he continued down, his tongue tracing the line of her collarbone. He lifted his hand and cupped her breast, teased her hardened nipple until she was panting, desperate, dying of the want that had taken over her body.

She gripped his shoulders, needing something to hold her to earth. He shifted his hand lower, palming her bottom, coupling it with a kiss to her collarbone. And then he was traveling down again, the tip of his tongue on the curve of her breast, exposed by the low neckline of her gown.

She opened her eyes for a moment and saw a flash of movement through the partly closed curtains. A reminder. Just enough to bring her back to reality.

“Lazaro, stop. We have to stop,” she said, her tongue thick and clumsy, unable to form words effectively.

“No, querida,” he whispered, kissing her throat. “Not yet.”

“But … what … what will people think?”

Lazaro froze, all of the heat, the molten lust that had been roaring through his veins turning into ice.

What will people think?

He tightened his hold on her for a moment and then released her. “Don’t worry, no one here will think anything, Vanessa. No one here knows that you are the Pickett heiress and I’m your housekeeper’s bastard son.” He spat the words from his mouth, vile words that reflected the clash of emotions raging inside him.

She shook her head and took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. “Lazaro …”

“How will you bear the humiliation of being married to a man like me?” He stepped away from her, his stomach tight with disgust. “Although my money is good enough for you. My ring—” he reached out and took her hand, lifting it so that the diamond caught the light “—seems to be good enough for you.”

“Don’t say that. That’s not fair. I …”

“Don’t say what, Vanessa? Don’t tell you the truth? I’m good enough to marry, as long as I’m bailing you out and giving you a ring that ought to come with its own security detail? Good enough to screw around with in your father’s guesthouse as long as no one sees you slumming it with the boy who cuts the grass?”

“Lazaro …”

“You need me,” he said, his voice sounding like a growl, shocking even him. “Admit it.”

“I …”

Pain tore through him, made him want retribution. “Say it.”

“Or what? You’ll walk away? You’ll forget that you need me?” She pulled away from him. “Because no matter how much you pretend to disdain me, my father, society, you want your place at the top. And you need me to get it.”

Angry brown eyes clashed with his, a tear, not one of sadness but of pure rage, spilled down her cheek. “I want to go now,” she said, her voice low.

He inclined his head. “Of course, princesa,” he said, the term not meant as one of endearment.

She turned, walking ahead of him, pushing the door open.

It was warmer outside than it was in the club, the night air heavy and clinging, weighing him down, along with what felt like a rock in his gut. She was acting as though she’d been deeply wronged—offended by his touch, most likely. Because he was so beneath her. At least in public.

He curled his hands into fists, holding them so tight the tendons in his wrists ached.

The penthouse was only a couple of blocks away and Vanessa maintained her stony silence the entire way there. Once they were inside the lobby she kept a few paces in front of him, clearly determined not to look at him or acknowledge his presence.

Anger roared to life in him, replacing the unsettling guilt that had momentarily crept in. She wouldn’t have her way. Not now. He wasn’t a boy anymore, at the mercy of her father’s henchman. And she was no longer the princess in a tower, no longer so far above him she could dismiss him at will. She couldn’t just walk away from him.

“You will have to get over your aversion to being seen with me in public, mi amor,” he said.

She stopped mid-stride and turned to face him, her dark eyes shimmering with heat. “Do I also have to get over my aversion to being groped in public? Does it somehow offend you that I want to maintain some level of public decency?”

“You maintain a high level of private decency as well, since you do not allow me in your bed.”

“You take it pretty personally when a woman says no to you. I remember that well.”

“No, what I take personally is a woman thinking I’m good enough to tease, but not good enough to take to her bed.”

She took a step toward him, her lips tightened into a line.

“Is that what you think that was? Me teasing you?” She shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking. If I was thinking I would never have let you touch me.”

“You think that’s the basis for a happy marriage?”

“I think maybe the basis for a happy marriage is not pursuing the union for business purposes, but then, I’m not really an expert.”

“That is a shame, as you have agreed to marry for the benefit of your company. And, as we’ve discussed, no one has forced you into this. And I will not be made a fool of. Not twice. Not by the same woman.”

“You think I made a fool of you, Lazaro?” Her voice was barely raised above a whisper, the force of her emotions making her words tremble. “You weren’t the one pressed up against the wall in a public place and … and you have the gall to be angry at me?”

He took a step toward her, softening his voice. “Is that what bothers you the most, Vanessa Pickett, that I make you lose all of that respectability that’s so important to you and your family?”

“No, what bothers me is that you think nothing of … of … humiliating me like that in public. Treating me like a thing, your possession that you can put your hands on whenever you want to.”

“Is that it? My touch humiliates you?”

Vanessa took a step toward him, her breasts rising and falling with each breath, her delicate hands curled into fists. Arousal and lust warred with anger for prime position inside him. His body still wanted her, was still craving her after that small taste he’d gotten back at the club.

It shamed him, how badly he wanted a woman who saw him as she did. And yet, he could not stop himself. He had been craving her for twelve years. There was nothing that could destroy the desire. Not years of separation, not other lovers, not even the anger that was rolling through him like a tidal wave.

He curved his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, his hand drifting down until it touched the rounded curve of her bottom. “I don’t believe that. I think what you really hate, Vanessa, is that no matter what, no matter how much you wish you didn’t, no matter how ashamed you are of it, you want me.”

Her expression was tight, mutinous, her dark eyes blazing with heat and rage. She put her hands on his chest, curled her fingers around the fabric of his shirt and stretched up on her toes, her breasts brushing against him. She kissed him, her mouth hungry on his, the explosion between them making the kiss at the club seem tame, harmless.

Desire was a living entity between them, dark and dangerous, driving them, pushing them. It was like hurtling toward a cliff, knowing they would both go over the edge if they didn’t stop. And yet, knowing that, neither of them stopped.

Lazaro doubted if he could.

She slipped her tongue between his lips, tasting him, teasing him, and a flood of pure lust spread through him, overtaking him. He slid his hand down and cupped her bottom, drew her hard up against his erection.

Vanessa’s stomach contracted when she felt the evidence of his arousal. He still wanted her. And even though she was angry at him, she wanted him. Maybe even more because of that anger, all of her emotions mixing, the anger in her a lit match against flammable desire. She wanted him more than she wanted her next breath, and it didn’t make any sense to her.

Sex, in her mind, had always been about love and roses and perfect moments. This was as far from a perfect moment as she’d ever imagined, and yet she wanted him. All of him. Every last muscular inch.

She slid her hand sideways and wedged her fingers into the gap of his buttoned-up shirt. He was all hot, hard flesh. She traced a line along his skin, the faint scrape of chest hair against her palm sending a shiver of excitement through her.

On the dance floor, she’d felt as if a part of herself had been unlocked, releasing a desire for more of life than she’d been living. It had been a taste of freedom, and now she was starving for it.

She always thought things through. She planned and rationalized and made sure she was making the right decisions for everyone involved, the right decision for her family name.

But now she wanted Lazaro. And it wasn’t about the company, or the marriage or anything beyond the desire to find pleasure in the man who aroused her beyond words.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she said, her voice breathy and unfamiliar, her words echoing in the empty lobby.

He looked down at her, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek. Every hard line of his body was locked and tense, and she could feel his heart raging beneath her palm. He wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.

The knowledge sent a shot of pure giddiness through her, a kind of power she’d never fully understood before.

“I don’t like to be teased,” he said, his voice rough, his accent more pronounced.

“I’m not teasing.” She held his gaze, tried to keep her hands, her legs, from trembling. Her voice at least was steady. She was deadly serious.

“Tell me what you want.” He lowered his head, his lips hovering above hers.

“You,” she whispered, the word torn from her.

“More,” he ground out. “Tell me more.”

Her heart thundered hard, her cheeks hot. “I want …” She swallowed. This wasn’t the time to be timid. There was no room for lies, for self-protection. “I want you. Your hands, your mouth, your …” A shudder of desire racked her body. “I want to make love with you. Tonight.”